The Hands of the Healer
by HeartoftheArtsari
Summary: In the Houses of Healing Lady Eowyn meets and is inspired by Lady Lothiriel's healing abilities and kind disposition. But both women must battle to discover and mend their complex hearts in relation to their male admirers in the years to follow The War of the Ring. An ode of tragedy, intrigue, love, and redemption. Come in to read and review!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Tolkien ( Lord of the Rings books/movies )

I express merely my feelings for the characters and landscapes.

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The wind was stirring over the high city of Minas Tirith. Eowyn, Shieldmaiden, White Lady of Rohan, amongst other things was never so stark or white as she was in that moment standing on a high balcony overlooking the city. Her fur-lined white cloak billowed in the frosty air, and grave sorrow and ire was etched in her features.

The people in the city murmered amongst themselves at the lady Eowyn's state of distress. As always she was a mystery to them, remote and untamed all at once. Few knew her true reason for her presence in the city; they guessed at the scandal as rumors flew, but there was still no proof.

Eowyn could feel her disgrace in the very marrow of her bones. She could feel the disapproval of her sweeping throughout Minas Tirith as people speculated. Her only relief was that so far there had been no visitors. Even King Aragorn and Queen Arwen were absent on a royal visit to the south. Yet soon they would return. And someone would speak to her, come to her.

Escape had loomed often in her mind; but where would she go, who would have her? Certainly not her brother Eomer. He would be angry, laugh as if to cover it all up and then shuffle her back where she belonged. And after the recent news from Lothiriel, Eowyn felt all the more ashamed. No her brother and sister-in-law had their own heartache and turmoil to deal with.

It was all almost to much to bear. Eowyn often spent her time in Minas Tirith out upon the balcony outside their warm apartments. Despite the chilly incoming winter weather, it was a respite to feel the shifting breeze. It chased away her stifling fears and feelings of rage, remorse.

How could life be so cruel to them? Had it been their choices? They had been the chosen ones of a golden age, healers for a new time. Maybe there was still some good left or even meaning. But Eowyn was casting ruthlessly about for that silver lining. She needed time to reflect, time to prepare herself.

How in all of Middle-earth had it come to this? Where were the maidens, battle-scarred but indomitable who had overcome so much? Where and who was she Eowyn and of course the lovely Lothiriel of days gone by, the two women who had learned and beat the odds and formed an unlikely friendship all that time ago in the Houses of Healing? Could they move forward from this, taking in what had happened in the past?

Eowyn's hands clenched the gilt metal railing. She blinked back a single glistening tear from her stormy eyes. As her golden hair whipped her face and her clothes rustled, she looked up at the sky and then closed her eyes. She was going to go back in time and make sense of it all if she could. Eowyn opened her eyes wide against the clouds and blue firmament. She inhaled a strong sweet breath.


	2. Chapter 2

"Awake Lady of Rohan, the Shadow has passed!"

The commanding words washed over her as a reprieve from a violent storm; and violent had her inner visions been. Or had they been much more then the shades of the night, the piercing chill of dark reality?

The great beast had been there...along with the Nazgul- Lord mocking her and her kin with death. And strangely she had defied it, owning her identity for the first time in all her life, choosing life, throwing her male disguise asunder. Eowyn was not weak in her femininity; she had used it to her power. "I am Eowyn, daughter of kings, a Shieldmaiden of Rohan!" The words had crashed through her mind as she felled the beast; and then at last through the haze of her great pain as she slew the Nazgul king with a final surge of strength flowing through her screaming veins. She remembered her death grip on the hilt of her bloodied sword, the way her hand had melded around it, raw, burning, alive with something beyond herself. Eowyn had been one with the steel. She had fallen, but so had her tormenter.

That had been no dream. Was she dead now or alive? What or who was calling her through the grey shadowy mist?

Understanding swept through her, clarifying the voice. Aragorn-

Pain and wild joy crowded her thoughts. "Then We are not lost yet; there is indeed hope. But Is there still hope for me?" With that Eowyn opened her eyes to the golden light. Faces swam before her vision.

The cool air bathed her face as her eyes met her brothers. She was aware of figures moving in and out of the room, but for the moment all she saw was Eomer, his hand gripping hers as if it would slip away. "Eowyn." He whispered, all the fear and solace betrayed with her name uttered aloud.

"Eomer! You are alive!" Her voice came out rasping and edged with disbelief.

"Yes, my sister. Barely. We both have Aragorn to thank for our skins." He paused then as if he was afraid he had said the wrong thing.

"Do not worry, I know it was he that healed me." Her skin seemed to tremble, barely perceptible in the soft lighting.

"And what of our uncle, the King of the Mark, where does he lie?" Seeing the glimmer of repressed tears in Eomers eyes, Eowyn remembered. "Wait Eomer, don't speak, I know he is gone despite all my efforts to save him. This is my most tormenting wound." She squeezed Eomer's hand even as it brought forth feelings of physical pain.

"He is lying in honor in this city's citadel, awaiting the appropriate time to travel home. Oh Eowyn we have won a great battle but the war is still not over." Eomer said with a cutting, difficult honesty.

"I know that too. If I may recover from my injuries and help in some way then perhaps the shadow will not hold sway." That fighting light that Eomer knew well bloomed in her determined features.

"For now you must rest." He told her, trying to be stern and failing in some way.

" What of Meriadoc, the Halfling? Is he alright? He was valiant beyond belief!" Eowyn exclaimed, her eyes finally falling on the wizard Gandalf in the corner.

" He is also recovering in this House, and I now must go to him. Please allow yourself to heal my Lady, you have fulfilled much that was needed." The wizard told her, retiring from the room with a courteous bow.

"He is right you know." Said Eomer with a small smile.

" They are right.. my Lady, at the import of healing." From the shadows a woman stepped closer to the bed where Eowyn lay, a compassionate, gentle expression in her sculpted face; one high of cheekbones, slender-lipped, with eyes of deep set hazel. Chestnut hair fell from beneath her pinned veil. She looked to be about the siblings age. Eowyn guessed she was a high ranking healer. Her garments were simple but of a high quality.

" I am Lady Lothiriel." The woman said, introducing herself. "I am a healer here in the Houses of Healing of Minas Tirith. But I am also Lord Faramir's cousin, the daughter of Imrahil of Dol Amroth. You may call me just Lothiriel, there is no pretension as healing is my only true calling in this world. You are indeed a valiant woman Eowyn of Rohan. You most relax however, in order to heal what remains damaged in both body and soul. I am going to encourage your brother, Lord Eomer, to come visit you often as it will be very good for both of you. I will leave you now, but I will return, as I have been chosen to oversee your healing during your stay with us here. Ask anything of us, the Gondorians owe you much. Soon you must sleep my Lady; so talk of things gentle and mild if you can." With a beaming smile, Lothiriel curtsied deeply and retired from the chamber.

Eowyn noticed her brother surreptitiously watching Lothiriel's departure. "She is quite interesting-a noblewoman healer!" Said Eowyn in wonderment.

"Yes, she is." Eomer spoke quietly, turning back to his sister. The evening shadows began to deepen over the room, bringing all manner of thoughts, anxieties, and hopes that whispered throughout the city and the far outer reaching lands.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to my supporters! Here is another chapter for your enjoyment!

Lady Lothiriel walked steadily down the twisting passageways of the Houses of Healing, deep in thought.

She had been given leave of her duties to go see her cousin Faramir. She was looking forward to seeing him awake and recovered. He could just as easily have been yet another terrible casualty of this dark, strange day.

During the siege of Minas Tirith, Lothiriel had found herself running more then sleeping; tending the countless wounded, dying men along with the other healers. She was weary now, but was still being carried on the wings of heightened stress and relief. In all her years at the Houses of Healing she had never seen such great suffering and despair. Oppression had hung low and heavy over the embattled city.

Then out of the night had risen the dawn, bringing a day like no other in her memory. In their hour of greatest need, help had come.

Myriad strangers had been their saviors. Men had sung and died and gained victory in the fields below. And a princess of the Rohirrim had defeated the Witch-king with only a Halfling by her side.

Lothiriel still marveled at the power. nobility and grace of Lord Aragorn. A great warrior who also wielded the healing gift in a way no other healer had been able to accomplish. He singlehandedly had brought life back to these Houses of Healing.

Already people were saying that he was the ancestral king returned; come long overdue to reclaim this doubtful, sorrowful land from the shadow it had rested under for so long.

Lothiriel felt that she was part of a tale worthy of the legendary stories of old. Deep within it and containing only a small fragment of it was her only place among such heroes. But she would not have desired to be anywhere else, if she had assisted only one person with pain, stranger or countryman, she knew it was where she had been destined to be.

She paused before a warm carved wooden door of a rich hue; she redid her braid and pinned it back beneath her hair veil, so that her hair did not fall out of it any longer. She desperately needed washing. She suspected she had blood hidden in there somewhere. At least her grey overdress was on the side less dirtied. Lothiriel did not often give much thought to her appearance, she only really cared if she was decent.

She took a deep breath, knocked and then entered the chamber.

Sitting up amongst the coverlets on the bed was Faramir, looking pale but very much alive. Beside the bed was a dark-haired man and a boy of about ten years old.

Seeing that it was Lothiriel, Faramir's grey eyes shone into hers, the swirling depths both fragile and strong, reminding Lothiriel of her father and his uncle, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. The dignity was the same that his late and more impetuous older brother Boromir had carried as well, thought Lothiriel sadly.

The two brothers had been the older brothers she never had. When her mother died of plague, she had been sent to learn healing from their father Lord Denethor's sister, Lady Gebrina. At the time she had been the head healer in the Houses of Healing, and had been thought the most appropriate female relative for Lothiriel to learn the art of being a lady from.

She had only been seven at the time, leaving her father and three year old brother Ceril in the south.

While it had been a difficult transition at first, her much older cousins Boromir and Faramir had helped her feel at home, adopting her as their younger sister. Faramir had always been the more refined, gentler-spirited of the two.

Lothiriel sincerely hoped that now that the two brothers and their father were separated by the veils between the worlds, that Faramir could cast his own shadow separate of the overbearing brother and father whom he had both loved and mourned.

He had already done so much. And it was he who was now the new Steward of Gondor in this dramatic, unpredictable age.

"Lothiriel!" He uttered, his voice lower pitched then usual. I am so happy to see you!"

" As am I, my dearest cousin!" Said Lothiriel, moving to sit on the bed, taking his hand In hers.

"I thought we were going to loose you. I was so worried Faramir, if you had passed then I feel my heart would have been severed!"

" Well I am still here. Worse for the wear, but mending!" Faramir said with a rueful smile.

"Mending. Yes, I can see how much better you are and it is good!" Lothiriel turned his hand over, gently pressing to feel the now sturdy pulse in his wrist.

"Always the healer!" Faramir teased her lightly.

"The Lord Aragorn drew him back from the brink, I saw it with my own eyes." Said the dark-haired man, Beregond, of the Guard and Faramir's good friend. Lothiriel turned to the brown-eyed man, catching his innate sorrow. She knew that they couldn't tell Faramir everything about the circumstances of his father's death yet; it was too tragic. But Lothiriel knew that Beregond had seen everything, and had gently broken the news to Faramir, albeit all the details.

" The Lord Aragorn is an awe-inspiring miracle worker" She agreed.

" He knew a lot about ancient herb-lore!" Piped up Beregond's son Bergil.

" I owe my life to this man. I will do everything in my power to assist him in rebuilding this world, if we win this War. Already it seems closer to being a possibility. I do not know if I have felt that kind of hope amid such tribulation in months, maybe years." Said Faramir seriously.

"I am so sorry about your father, Faramir." Lothiriel told him softly.

He nodded, closing his eyes with gravity. He brushed back hair that fell over his brow, a darker russet version of Lothiriel's own. This was something that they shared. But Lothiriel did not have those striking grey eyes of the family lineage. Her hazel were her lost mothers, keen and comforting all at once.

" It will someday get better; with the passing of time. I know the pain will not leave me for a very long time, however. The only remedy for such grief is helping my people." He said at last.

Lothiriel nodded. How true that was.

"The world of our people has already been changed." Said Beregond. " We were indeed saved by courageous strangers from distant lands, now forever in their debt."

"The Rohirrim alone have surprised me." Remarked Lothiriel. " I thought that from all the tales they must be barbarians with no culture, but so far they have been gracious and stalwart. The tales of their feats in battle are fierce and unusual. The Lady Eowyn is proof alone of this."

"One of their women rode with the host?" Asked Faramir in surprise.

"In secret disguise I have heard. And then she killed the Ringwraith!" Related Beregond.

"My father found her to be alive, and he was impressed that a woman had held her own on the battlefield and lived. Lady Eowyn and her brother, the young new king of Rohan, Eomer, are very brave but they have a very strong bond which is even more touching to see. They are fair-haired counterparts of eachother. I have been bidden to oversee the care of this unique woman, which I am more then pleased to do." Said Lothiriel.

"You won't give up your herbs and healers knife for a sword in her company will you?" Beregond teased her.

" No, not at all Beregond. But I will make her feel at home in this strange new city she has awoken too." Lothiriel was quiet, listening to the night, comforted but stirred up by all the recent happenings and her words with the men. Faramir gazed at her expression, not knowing how to decipher it.

Later that night after Lothiriel had finished visiting with Faramir, Beregond and Bergil, she was walking back to her chambers in search now of the sleep that had eluded her.

A tall figure came around the corner, bumping into her. "OH!" She cried, startled. " I am sorry Lady-Lothiriel." said a husky voice. The man quickly steadied her by the arm and then stepped away. She recognized Eomer of Rohan. He had longer hair then Gondorian men, and while his attire was still soiled from battle, he looked regal in a rugged way, Lothiriel noted.

"It is alright My Lord. I hope your sister is well. I must go to sleep if I am to care for her tomorrow!"

" Yes, look after her." Eomer responded gruffly. "But please do not coddle and control her. That will just offend. The Rohan are independent folk in no need of tampering and teaching." With that he abruptly turned and strode in the other direction away from her.

Lothriel's mouth dropped open in surprise. How unneccisarily rude! Why on earth would he say that ?

Maybe the Rohan were insensitive barbarians afterall!?


	4. Chapter 4

This has been a busy last week, but Chapter 4 is now up!

Lothiriel awoke before dawn. The inky night sky filled her windows in the room where she slept in the Houses of Healing. She felt a strange compulsion to rise and gaze out at the sleeping city. There was such perceptible stillness in the air that stirred her mind, body and spirit. Her bare feet whispered over the floorboards, and her fingers brushed aside the curtains.

Her eyes took in the clarity of the sparkling night sky and the shimmering forms of the white city of Minas Tirith below its sable canvas. She enjoyed the city the most at this early morning hour; before the hustle and the bustle and the tension of the day.

Suddenly a streak of light fell to the east, wings of vanishing glitter disappearing in the sky above. A falling star. Lothiriel gasped a little, it deeply moved her emotions in a way she couldn't explain. Was it a sign, an omen? If it was she hoped fervently it spoke of goodness for humanity instead of the continued chaos. Feeling the weight and clarity of the moment, Lothiriel stood there until the dawn came brushing its light over the city.

Later that morning as she mentally prepared for her duties in the Houses, she drank her restorative herbal infusion and stood by the wall in the lovely outer gardens. The morning was startlingly clear and sunny. A nearly cloudless day not seen in weeks.

Birds were swooping over the rooftops and landing in the garden to forage. Many were the carrion birds such as ravens; but others were gentle mourning doves. Lothiriel did not see the carrion birds as mere harbingers of death and destruction, she thought of them as crafty messengers, as ravens were sometimes trained to carry information.

The doves made her smile with a candid irony as the women of the Houses of Healing were often called mourning doves because of their black and grey raiment. Their position of assisting those dying was also the basis for the reference.

A man arrayed in armor was striding up the walkway through the gardens. His dark hair was greying, but he was lean and noble in countenance. Lothiriel recognized her father Imrahil of Dol Amroth.

"Father!" She hurried to him, skirts rustling.

He turned, pausing to smile at her in his distant kind matter. "My beautiful Lothiriel." He hugged her when she reached his side.

"What brings you back here this morning?"

"I wanted to see how Faramir was doing, for I have been thinking often of him after his near brush with death yesterday. Tell me daughter, do you think he will ever heal and recover?" His nephew who reminded him so closely of his late sister Finduilas was very dear to his heart.

Lothiriel clenched her hands. "I know he has been pulled back from under the hand of the shadow. But in truth Father I know there are some hurts that can never be mended, unless the soul can purge the taint."

"Thank-you for that honesty Lothiriel, I have felt the same about his condition. Look out for him while we continue the last push in this war. I know this darkness is coming to a head and time is speeding up for us all." Imrahil looked past her to the east, his forehead furrowed and his grey eyes shaded and fey with the knowledge of diminishing power.

Lothiriel shivered, suddenly more frightened by what she saw in him then she cared to admit.

"I am also here because King Eomer and I were called to a council between the captains. I have heard he is visiting his sister the Lady Eowyn this morning in the Houses. Have you seen him?"

Lothiriel did not want to tell him about her confusing encounter with him the night before, so she said: "I saw King Eomer yesterday with his sister, whom I have been given care of. This morning I have not begun my duties, so I have not encountered our Rohirrim guests."

"They are indeed both beautiful and hot-blooded people. I told you about my encounters with them on the battlefield yesterday. If Lord Aragorn and the Rohan had not come to our aid, we would have lost, Lothiriel."

Lothiriel nodded somberly, looking up into his eyes. "Father, are we in the final stages of this war?"

"I do not know if we will win, if that is what you are asking. We may have won one battle, but Sauron is an unimaginable evil. We will try to make one last stand against him, perhaps even riding to the gates of Mordor, if the decision were up to me. This dread and oppression has gone on long enough."

"Then my thoughts and prayers will ride with you Father." Lothiriel held back painful tears brimming in her eyes. She dabbed them with her sleeve. "I know tears will not aid us now. I will look over Faramir, if you will keep Ceril out of trouble."

"That seems a fair exchange. I must go now, but I have a feeling you will meet two more interesting soldiers ere you leave this garden." With a mysterious smile, Imrahil swiftly turned and walked into the Houses of Healing.

Lothiriel turned back to the walls enclosing the garden. She wondered at his words, and gathering that she had a little time left to spare, she closed her eyes, beginning to hum a song popular in the south. Her sounds grew to words soothing and peaceful to her ears. She sang:

"Flowing softly on the breeze...

the star of the sea

she softly sings to me...

The golden fields are calling

aiding my progress...

bringing a bright blessing

to my gardens, flowers and birds...

coming down on the crest of the wave

oh rolling down the vast, velvet sky...

is the star of the sea"

She sang heedless of her surroundings, until she heard a modulated, silky voice say: "What a lovely, haunting voice you have My Lady."

She whirled around to see a fair, tall man, fresh of face but with eyes deeply wise and compelling. When she saw the pointed ears, she felt her own eyes widen in shock. An Elf!

By his side was a short, stocky, heavily bearded man fingering the handle of his axe. An Elf with a Dwarf companion? What kind of new world was this?

"You startled me! I do-I- what may I call you gracious gentlemen?" Lothiriel asked, feeling flustered.

The Elf smiled, an expression both cool and warm, sad and joyous.

"I am Legolas of Mirkwood, and this is Gimli son of Gloin. We traveled with Lord Aragorn, and are his friends. We are also the former companions of Merry and Pippin, the two hobbits who we were told we would find here. Our hearts are anxious to see them. What is your name, good lady?"

"I am Lothiriel, a healer here and daughter to Imrahil."

"Ah we just met that fair lord, and somehow I am not surprised you are his daughter."

"Do you know where we may find the merry young hobbits?" Gimli spoke up in a low booming voice.

Lothiriel opened her moth poised to speak, when she heard the light, high-hearted voices echoing from somewhere in the garden. The study, indomitable hobbits seemed to have found them. "They are here My Lords. Thank-you for your kind words, I will now leave you to your friends." She bowed her head, and then walked away with difficulty as her curiousity was immense.

What else would this day bring her in the Houses of Healing?

She finally reached Eowyn's chamber, wondering how she might be received. The door opened and her father and Eomer of Rohan came out. Her father smiled as he passed and Eomer gave her a perfunctory nod and bow. But as the young kings eyes came up, Lothiriel found herself drawn in and engaged by a sad, unfathomable glance that melted both anger and reserve in her heart all at once.

He may die and leave his sister alone-

The realization struck her with compassion. No matter his behavior, she owed him and his sister a chance.

Their time was limited.

As the two men departed, Lothiriel went into the room. Ioreth immeditly came up to her and whispered: " Good luck, Lothiriel, The White Lady is very restless today." Lothiriel glanced towards the bed where Eowyn sat, her pale face impassive and stony and very faraway. She was quite beautiful and somehow more fierce in the light of the morning.

"Don't worry, I can handle her." The older woman shook her head and left.

Lothiriel moved towards the bed. " Good morning, Lady Eowyn."

Eowyn met her gaze. "Is it good?" She questioned.

The bone structure of her face stood in contrast to her eyes, strong and raging as a tumultuous sea.

Lothiriel did not back down from those eyes. "I need to do things on my own." Hissed Eowyn.

"As you will, my Lady. Here are clothes and brushes and mirrors." Lothiriel opened a chest next to the bed. " I can also bring you water and whatever else you need. Just be gentle in your movements. Are you thirsty? I am having herbal tea brought to you."

Eowyn's features trembled with exhaustion and emotion. Her eyes were suddenly those of a petulant child turned sensitive and close to tears.

"I am so sorry. You are being so kind, and I am being awful! Didn't you say your name is Lothiriel, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth?"

Lothiriel smiled broadly with her success. "Yes I am, My Lady."

"Please, you may call me Eowyn. And ignore my changing moods." Eowyn laughed grimly."I really can't stand to lie here useless when I could be doing something of worth and valor to our cause; it makes me frustrated to be left behind."

"Such are the words of all truly great warriors, Eowyn."

As Lothiriel uttered these words, she was blessed by the first real smile from Eowyn, one that shone and radiated beyond the confines of the healing chamber. One that spoke to the future.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day Eowyn watched the rays of sunlight drifting over the floorboards and across her body. At a table and chair beside her bed Lothiriel was bent over herbs she was combining for the important herbal preparations used in the Houses.

They were silent now, but earlier they had been thick in the mist of swirling conversations. Eowyn had been glad for the company. Nightmares she did not want to name had reared their raw uguly heads, stripping her down to an uncomfortable vulnerable state. It was best to try and forget them. Whispers of her frailty, uttered by Grima Wormtounge replaced her battle opponents. And then the people she had loved cried out to her in her dreaming.

Healing was a process more complicated then her traumatized physicality. Her mind still warred with her innate weakness as she tried to brush off her injuries. Her shield arm had been mangled, broken and cut by the Nazgul's mace. It was in a sling covered with salves and bandages. It would require a lot of recovery and rehabilitation she had no doubt. But this would heal...

It was her sword arm that frightened her at the core. While Aragorn had brought life back to it, the limb still had a numb tingling heaviness that made her wonder about her future as a warrior. Eowyn clenched her hand to bring circulation, desiring more then anything to hold her dissolved blade in her hand once more. She felt the most safe with a sword at her side, in reach of her fingers.

At least she felt more human, a woman again, instead of simply a displaced bed-bound patient. When Lothiriel handed her a mirror after Eowyn had finally brushed out her tangled golden waves and put on a loose-fitting white dress instead of nightclothes, the image looked like her. However the dark circles and hollows beneath her eyes, in her translucent skin, made her grimace. But she felt carven out internally...

At least Lothiriel had given her space to feel. Her cool, serene hands upon Eowyn's brow and when applying a paste of marigold and comfrey to her arm had been non-judgemental.

The two women shared more then met the eye, as they had grown up surrounded by male figures. Lothiriel had told her of her close knit older cousins Faramir, and the deceased Boromir. She had a troublemaking, renegade younger brother Ceril; and a proud father living far in the south. Eowyn had told her of Theodred, Théoden and Eomer.

They had each lost loved ones at a very young age.

Eowyn saw Lothiriel without the usual giddiness of other women. There was authenticity. Compared to herself she was a more patient, placid woman styled in the Gondorian fashion.. but also a brave, strong one so used to caring for the wounds of swords that she knew more of men and battle then anyone would ever guess. A woman who smiled often to give respite to herself and her patients... an optimist of the darkest hour.

She had a presence that allowed Eowyn to feel her confusion and angst as keenly and quietly as she needed to.

While Eowyn felt that on some level she had been locked up and hidden high in the recesses of Minas Tirith, she had had her share of visitors. Her favorite besides her brother was Merry the Hobbit, who had come twice to converse with her.

Much had been learned of her feats in battle from Merry's account. She felt a great kinship with the Hobbit. She had not killed the Witchking alone; Merry had also plunged his hand into the drowning, withering blackness of the Nazgul's form and lived to tell of it. Theirs was an unspoken, unbreakable bond of shared experience.

As she was thus ruminating, Eowyn heard voices at the door. Perhaps he had come back!

Lothiriel rose and crossed the room as a strange broad-shouldered man with hair nearly as dark as a raven entered.

They bent their heads in a whisper, and Eowyn thought she heard Lothiriel murmer something about propriety which the man brushed off with a hasty explanation and a laugh.

Lothiriel backed away to some other task in the room, and the man approached her bedside. He bowed and Eowyn armored herself in her steely wariness, the position she always took with a man she did not know. His head lifted and her eyes caught in his large brown eyes.

"I have long wanted to make the acquaintance of Eowyn the White Lady, slayer of the Nazgul-lord. Hopefully I am not overly presumptuous in my curiousity." The man spoke in tones both outgoing and restrained. "I am Beregond, formerly of the Citadel Guard and now merely a common soldier of Minas Tirith."

Eowyn stared sharply into his eyes with a force of her will. "So you have found me, for I am indeed Eowyn, Eomunds daughter, the white shieldmaiden of the Rohirrim as the people have thus named me. My deeds were done out of desperation, and if they have won renown I do accept them, and am grateful for your praises." Her voice grew soft, as she found she was unable to fully understand his words meaning on her pulsing heart. He was playful of nature but seemed genuine in his outlook of her.

Taking the motion of her hand, he sat down on a chair beside her. He began to tell her of the tales told of her throughout the city, some good, some bad. There was frankness in his position of wanting to see for himself what all the fuss was about. "I find you to be a woman, but one unusual and with great bearing. You are no two-headed beast!" Beregond told her with a laugh, after he had spoken of one tale that gave her supernatural powers.

"So you see the truth of it; a woman sent to the Houses as not to disobey any further orders however it might lead to a greater glory." Eowyn said truthfully, feeling a strange comfort in Beregond's presence she had not anticipated. She reckoned he was a man covering up his own painful secrets and past with an adept wit.

He was quiet for a moment. "Ah disobedience. It seems as if we both forsook our duties for grave matters of the heart." He proceeded to tell her with some hesitation of his showdown in the Citadel to save the life of Faramir from his deranged father, Lord Denethor. He had chosen friendship over duty, and had changed his standing because of it. "But Lord Faramir is alive, and my heart sings with the knowledge that he has not passed into the shadows."

Eowyn was stirred by the story. This was obviously no simple man.

"I fear we may all have such limited time left to us. I yearn if nothing else to cherish my moments with my son Bergil... to know that it will be enough. But I will no doubt probably meet my end on field of battle in the remaining days of this war. We may not come back." His eyes gazed out the windows into the sky, there and gone energetically all in one instant.

Beregond rubbed his knees and then came to his feet. "There are things calling me My Lady Eowyn. But it has been my utmost pleasure to meet you."

She brushed a glittering, wiry strand of hair from her face. "I hope you do come back, Sir... Beregond." Eowyn's eyes moved carefully over his features as he smiled.

He turned and began to stride out the door. He stopped, hesitant, and looked back. "I hope so too." Beregond told her gently. His exit was rougher then his words, the door screeching, slamming on his way out. Eowyn did not even flinch.

When she thought of their conversation later, then color swept up, heating her cheeks with a power that startled her.

Eowyn was pushing the feelings aside, seeking some measure of comfort in the confining bed, when Lothiriel announced her brother. Eomer came in as if on the wind, his hair blown back and severity set in his features. A king young in his newly given power. She could read his unease as one would read a book.

He took her hand, squeezed it once and then sat down. Eomer put both hands restlessly up to his brow and then removed them, all before he met her gaze. He clenched his fists. "There has been a decided course of action made, sister." He said.

Eowyn raised her eyebrow. "No good-day greeting, brother? Just words of empty mystery?"

"I will not mince words with you Eowyn. The captains have all decided that we ride to the Black Gate, march on Mordor, draw out the forces of the dark-lord... our one chance to defeat Sauron once and for all. We leave on the morrow."

Eowyn gasped, almost as a blow to her gut. "Seriously Eomer? I may have been rash, but that plan sounds as if you throwing your life away!"

"It is not as foolish as it seems. I can't tell you everything right now..."

"Never. That is when you will tell me, never!"

"You may be right, but I hope you are more safe here in the city..."

"Safe...Eomer I would not have ridden to Minas Tirith If I wanted to be safe. There is more for me outside these walls... wait and I will ride by your side brother, make myself useful if death is where we are headed. Indeed! Let us be more then witless cowards cowering in the dark! Let us be together in the last ride of the Eorlingas!"

"Don't be a fool yourself, Eowyn. You are in no state to ride, fight... not for a very long time."

"There is no time!" Eowyn threw her shoulders back, swinging her legs over the bed and dragging herself up.

"Eowyn, no!" Eomer caught her, restraining her as she struggled against him, angered almost to tears.

She slapped him with her sword hand as her limbs weakened to the strain. He winced at the blow, but did not allow her any room to fight. "You'll hurt yourself again." He said, sorrow brooding deep in his eyes. "This is unreasonable. Don't act like this."

Eowyn sank back into the bedding, a single tear rolling down over her chin. She closed her eyes. "I know what you are thinking Eomer. I deserve to be left behind after abandoning our people with no leader. It is payment returned."

"Our people will find way without you. Now you must find a way without me."

There was silence as Eowyn composed herself. She saw his point, but still knew that Eomer was ashamed and resentful of her for the complications she presented for everyone because of her natural stubborn will.

"Aragorn sends you his best, and hopes you are renewed in full spirit and body if we return."

These words made her see the completion of her love for Aragorn. He had indeed been a savior of sorts, but he could never fulfill her dream. He cared for her, but the sentiment was cold and hollow in expecting anything further. Her ears rang with it.

When they began to talk more calmly again, Eowyn surrendered to the inevitable. She would have to do something... be responsible... even if she was left as she had been left so many times before picking up the broken pieces of the men destined for greener pastures.

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Eomer walked carefully down the streets of Minas Tirith. It was evenfall, and he was thinking of how Lord Aragorn had talked of all that must be carried and left behind when one rode to battle. Aragorn held something very close and painful to his own heart, Eomer could see it so often shining in his eyes.

As I carry my sister...

He looked up to where he knew the Houses of healing lay, thinking of the multilayered emotions Eowyn caused within him.

Lothiriel had summed up part of it as he had spoken to her outside Eowyn's chamber.

She was leaving on some errand as he had also departed. "Wait." She had stopped abruptly, the image of any other healer, but Lothiriel had gilt designs sewed to her hanging sleeves, that gathered swinging at her wrists in languid folds. "I misjudged you, please forgive my mistake. I see now you have been a good friend to my sister." He told her.

Lothiriel inclined her soft grey head shawl, a covering for the rich hair he knew lay beneath it.

"Good luck in the east..." She said, something breaking within her voice.

"Your sister would in her heart most likely want me to tell you to take care... but that is something women like to say and men don't like to hear on the eve of battle. So instead I will tell you to make the hosts of Mordor shudder and bloody your sword for the hope and glory of all our people."

He had nodded, lost in her spring-like eyes, wondering if he could, if any of them could, bring back peace to the white city where the women waited in as much of a struggle as any of the men would face on the field.


	6. Chapter 6

The army of the west was marching to face the terror of the east.

Lothiriel stood with Faramir, Bergil and Merry overlooking the host as they rode from Minas Tirith. It was a windy day, gales ripping through the streets and over the heads of the massed armored men. Above them, Lothiriel watched their dauntless courage shown starkly in their features, all determined to overcome in the face of so much.

She remembered another day when she had stood barely able to look up as Faramir rode to Osgiliath. She had thought he would die. The whisper of her fear had made her unable to feel hope. Today she felt weak stirrings of it in her aura, life rearing at the corners, a stalwart breath. Perhaps because Faramir had survived and was standing solid in body beside her, it gave her soaring, inexplicable faith. Their arms were clasped for comfort and support if need arose, and through the contact she could feel that his spirit was still oppressed in someway. Faramir had recovered surprising strength in body and had wanted to see the captains ride to Mordor, no matter what he felt in his heart.

"The least I can do is give them my presence at the end even if I cannot follow them to the Black Gate." He had told her wistful... with a pained knowing. Did he think it was the end? Lothiriel didn't know if anyone could have the clarity to answer such a question.

She felt the honor of these men rising powerfully over the city they were leaving. For the moment it would sustain them. What then?

Aragorn rode dark-cloaked at the front of the company, an image of kings from a different, yet paralleled land long ago sunk beneath the rolling blue waves of the sea. The glittering black and white standard of the tree and stars followed in his wake.

Gandalf Mithrandir, the wise, majestic white wizard was next to him, as were his friends and companions Legolas and Gimli. The Elf Legolas was straight and proud, filled with an alien grace as he effortlessly maneuvered his horse through the company and over the cobblestone streets down to the gate. Lothiriel was fascinated by the visage of the first man of Elven-kind she had ever seen. She would have liked to have visited with him more, asking him of the lore and songs of his people. Hair drifting behind, bow and arrows slung over his back, he passed through the gate.

Coming behind them were the knights of Dol Amroth, their blue and silver swan banners fluttering amongst them, putting a congealing lump in Lothiriel's throat. The time for grief and tears would be later if she had need of it... she told herself sternly. Her father was at the helm of the host, mighty as carven stone and as accepting of his years as one in the prime of youth. Next to Imrahil was his son and her brother Ceril, masked with bravado but his face somehow bared to the honesty of the moment. He had never looked more of a man she thought ruefully.

Next came Beregond who was leading a company of the soldiers of the city with a firm, unwavering character that none could deny, although in the last few days some had called him an oath-breaker and a traitor. His gleaming copper-brown eyes flashed ahead in his fair face, and his hand lingered sure and steady upon his sword-hilt.

In Beregond's company was the Halfling Peregrin Took, called Pippin, dear to Beregond and his son Bergil but dearest to his old friend Meriadoc, or Merry who stood uncharacteristically sad and grim at her side. His eyes were large and glazed with water as he followed Pippin's progress through the streets. Pippin was garbed as a Gondorian, small of stature, but not at all diminutive in his great heart and energy.

The usually rambunctious Bergil was quiet as he watched his father below. He stood close beside Merry, the two sharing a poignantly striking if unlikely kinship.

Eomer was leading some of his finest Rohirrim horsemen in the next group, the horses with their beautiful conformation and prancing hooves, the men with inlaid helms and an impetuous gallant presence. Eomer stood out from them all with his leadership and determination. Perhaps he had finally accepted his role as king. Fittingly he carried their standard of a white horse upon a green field.

The people of the city were gathered on both streets and walls cheering the companies, and Eomer was glancing up at the spectators with gratitude in his eyes. He seemed to sweep the area where Lothiriel and her group stood, morning light catching in eyes that Lothiriel saw were bluer then his sister's. Eowyn should have been there for her brother; but nightmares and sickness had plagued her night and early morning. She had been so distraught that a tranquilizing infusion had been prescribed and given to her. Lothiriel secretly thought that many seemed intent in their own ways to suppress the intrepid woman. None were truly compassionate to her plight. Eowyn was a heroine, but she was being hidden way like someone shameful and crazy. Eowyn needed purpose and understanding. But perhaps there were very few who could truly understand such a woman. Eomer did, even if there was conflict in their relationship. It had been one of the most mournful sights Lothiriel had ever beheld when the brother and sister had said their last farewells to eachother.

Now the last of the army was departing through the sundered gate, and the companies joined other massed men and horses in the Pelennor fields. The shimmer of their weapons and armor reflected in the sun, and as they gathered as a force, the hooves of the calvary and the sound of blown trumpets echoed back as melodic thunder to Minas Tirith. They galloped into the wind and shadow of the east, disappearing into the chasm of the horizon.

Long minutes passed before Lothiriel, Faramir, Merry, or Bergil could stir. The breeze was blowing against them with a cold ruthlessness. Lothiriel's finest grey overdress billowed against Faramir, but no one noticed as lost as they were to their separate thoughts. Lothiriel felt a tightness in her chest, choking off her voice. She lifted her eyelashes to the wind, grateful that her hair was coiled in a chignon today. She finally risked a glance to those beside her. Merry and Bergil were murmering, beginning to walk away from the bleached wall where they stood. Faramir nodded as he met her eyes, and they slowly turned and began an ascent back to the Houses of Healing. "Do we need to call a litter?" She asked him, noting how drawn he looked.

"No Lothiriel, I am fine. The weakness does not arise from my bones. If I could feel the origins of new hope... perhaps I would appear more healed. The air will refresh me and be good for my lungs..." He trailed off, grey eyes high on the towering mount Mindolluin. "How will I avenge those who have fallen?" He said softly, and for that Lothiriel had no answer.

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Eowyn drifted back from under her stupor of overwhelming grief at the captain's departure, with a numbness and with a harshness that swallowed her. She now looked at herself as though she hovered outside of herself, detached, but still feeling pangs of great distress at the edges. Life was there too, taunting her and refusing to let her go.

What she desired now more then death was to have usefulness to what time remained in her life. Yet even that had been denied to her as she lay in her bed and was told she was still as helpless as a fledgling bird, unable to do anything of worth. Eowyn even became weary of Lothiriel's ministrations, even if she was the most encouraging of the healers. Her eyes latched gloomily only on information of import. If she must protect or assist the Gondorians if the hosts of Mordor marched once more on Minas Tirith... then she vowed she would not be helpless. They would see what a Shieldmaiden of Rohan was made of!

One day she sharply asked to look at her battle armor. Lothiriel looked a little frightened of her intentions, but brought it to her anyway. Eowyn stroked the chainmail, running the links between her fingers. Against the fabric of her gambeson she traced the designs, and then moved to her beloved helm, which had protected her identity on her ride to the south. The suit of armor smelled faintly of smoke and fire. Some of it was even charred, but it still stirred her ambitions.

Why oh why had Aragorn called her back from the abyss to a place where she was not allowed to even have purpose? He haunted her everyday, every-night. A benevolent haunting perhaps, but still uncanny. What did he want her to do with her life? Take up stitchery to record her past deeds of valor? Wail and moan meekly as some woman bereft without her man? Well she was dissolving into such a creature... Damn them all! She fumed.

Merry and Bergil came one day to see her, bringing cheer she hoped wasn't false. She didn't think she could stand that. But they were genuine in their regard for her, and Bergil reminded her of Beregond perhaps a little too much to her liking. Beregond had also ridden way to the Black Gate. If he died at least he would not face trial for his disobedience in the Citadel. But Eowyn did not want Bergil to loose his father, just as she didn't want to loose this someone who had been so kind and honest to her.

Merry had food brought to her chamber so they could all partake. He had been thrilled to know they had mushrooms stored in the city, and so they were brought along with an assortment of eggs, sausage, bread and butter and apples. It was quite a large feast, but one well enjoyed. Once all of the smells would have made Eowyn queasy, but she found herself enjoying the food with pleasure perhaps gained by observing Merry. He was mourning the fact that he too had been left behind, but as he said to her: "I pray for my friend's safety everyday.. and who really knows how this will end? But I intend to enjoy myself before my time runs out!"

Eowyn admired his viewpoint, perhaps not hers... but one to assist living in the days ahead...

A day came two days since the captains had ridden into the east where she knew she was definitely ready...

Fire and longing burned strong through the ice that had trammeled and entrapped her. Eowyn HAD to do something, anything.

When the women came into her chamber early that morning, she was steady upon her feet, her impassioned candent face one that would brook no refusal. Her eyes glittered. "Take me to the Warden..."

They listened to her firm words, and they arrayed her in a russet dress with accents of green and blue about collar, sleeves and hem. The dress was trim, fitting her slender form as a queen's raiment.

Eowyn was then led to a chamber where an elderly man, grey-haired and wise-eyed met her, bowing over her hands.

"My Lady Eowyn..."

She told him of her great feeling of uneasiness and uselessness. He gazed at her with scrutinizing force. "I fear can not offer you the counsel and position you seek, Lady Eowyn, again that would be where I pass my authority on to Lord Faramir, Steward of the City."

"Then show me where I might find him, bring me to him please... Sir Warden...!"

As the Warden of the Houses of Healing assented and led her out into the gardens, Eowyn wondered what sort of man this cousin of Lothiriel was...

Faramir was gazing far into the east, when voices came to his ears and he turned to behold Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan for the first time. The fragrant spring breeze was seeping through entwining branches and leaves. The first symmetrical blossoms were appearing in the garden and when he saw Eowyn standing amongst them, he was shocked at how she rivaled their beauty. Lips red as roses, skin creamy as alabaster, gold hair free-flowing as a river down over her shoulders, and piercing eyes as nostalgic and stormy as the grey sea. So steely and vulnerable all at once.

When Eowyn met the eyes so like her own, not unlike Aragorn's, but clear, concise and perceptive all on their own accord, she lowered her lashes and then raised them again to the power contained in this man. Hair and features were dark and light, as stern as winter and as benevolent as summer.

When Faramir and Eowyn saw the weakness and strength mingled in both the physical and etheric forms each mirrored in the other, their fate was written, and their lives were forever changed, never to be the same ever again...


	7. Chapter 7

They parted, the first sentences floating to their minds happening to be the titles of honor given before their personal names...

The Princess of Rohan... The Steward of Gondor...

Eowyn and Faramir's thoughts strayed back to their conversation as they took leave of eachother... the presence of the other refusing to dissipate as did the typical glistening drops of morning dew. Beautiful, plaintive birdsong had trailed over them as they had stood in the blooming garden. The meeting had held some great meaning to them, each seeking deep healing in ways they still couldn't understand.

"Yet another man..." Eowyn considered how she had fled from Faramir's searching gaze, piqued by the disposition of the Steward, but angered by her realization of it. Did she really need that right now? At another time she would have laughed at the irony. Never anyone of substance, now several in the last couple months?

At least their meeting had accomplished one thing; she now had new rooms that looked eastward over the brooding clouds. She resigned herself to the bustling of the healers with their endless poultices and compresses. Lothiriel standing very still and looking more pensive then usual, conversed with her about her new arrangements. Oh yes, all because of the Lord Faramir no doubt... if he continued to be friendly she really wouldn't mind. But she did not desire the man's courtship. Perhaps it was just too soon.

In fact Eowyn purposely hid herself in her chamber when she heard Faramir and Merry's voices passing by; she did not want to run into them again in the garden. However lovely that fresh outdoor air was... she told herself she was just too tired. Subconsciously she knew that was not the full truth.

The next morning her inquisitiveness won out, and after a refreshing washing, she dressed in her soft-flowing white gown given to her by the healers. This time however she belted it with a leather girdle, and looking into a mirror straightened the curve of her brows and pinched her cheeks with her fingers to give color. She asked Lothiriel to help her braid her hair half-back, and with a heavy sigh stepped out of her chambers, broken arm held tightly by the sling to her side.

Gliding over the flagstones, through the cultivated trees and hedges in their orderly rows... Eowyn looked. Yet Faramir was no where to be found. Bowing her head under the burden of her cares, Eowyn went to the ivory walls circling the gardens, away from the buzzing insects and permeating scents. He had lied; she thought, overlooking the grand imposing city. He had not come. Now she realized perhaps she needed his company as he had implied he needed hers...

"My Lady..." She turned, stoic in countenance, but then she had to fight the sad, ironic smile that rose to her lips. He was there, sun playing over his features as he approached her. Lord Faramir offered to show her all the new plants blooming in the garden. "We have many unusual varieties here." The steward told her. She inclined her head, and began to walk with him, suddenly extremely shy... and perhaps he was too. He did not frighten her as some did with their careful innuendoes and scorn. Faramir seemed to notice how she was a different woman then most, but he sought only to calm her. Did she truly calm him? Eowyn looked at him askance as they meandered over grass and under swaying tree, the sun warming their weary veins as a caress.

There was wonderment in the peace they shared, these people so innately scarred and edgy in their unique pain.

"Have I ever sat so with a man?" Thought Eowyn, as they sat quietly on a bench beneath a flowering tree. Faramir had surprisingly interested her in this garden, something too placid for her usual tastes. He sat next to her, but discreetly apart, which gladdened her as she had no wish to touch any man except in battle that was not her relation. Not after Aragorn...

Over the next days something peculiar began to happen... Faramir and Eowyn became such good companions, tall, lonely figures seen often with eachother, that the fortified walls each had built around their hearts began to crumble and expand. Eowyn enjoyed that they conversed about books, battles and horses; but would then often lapse into silence, for she needed the simple ease of air, without any normal restraints of courtesy. Faramir seemed content with this, as his personality was naturally quiet.

When they had outgrown the garden, treading in circles, restlessly they took matters in their own hands. Neither of them cared for unwanted gossip, so they began to slip away, meeting eachother covertly to explore the marble city. If the healers noticed how often they left the Houses hooded and cloaked, they did not say much, as perhaps they saw it inevitable that their two highest-born patients would escape their clutches. Lothiriel and the Warden saw it as a strange blessing from above for these two wounded souls.

Eowyn felt as a child again, reminded of her childhood exploits and tomfoolery with Eomer, slipping from stable to trails to icehouse to armory in search of adventure. If one could feel a child with this usually grave, lordly man, whose smiles were such brief rays of sunshine that Eowyn waited for them, as she was certain he did with her. Sometimes they laughed at their rashness of walking too far, escaping the Houses of Healing when they should have been in repose. Faramir would turn his eyes to her as though seeking something, and then she would glance away, suddenly halting her wild, uncontrolled moments of laughter. She couldn't remember the last time she had laughed before this surreal time of unending waiting in Minas Tirith. And they were waiting, waiting...

What had bonded them when they were so different in certain irrevocable ways... was the recent trauma, tragedy, woe. This man might be restrained in ways she wasn't, but Eowyn recognized the incisive hunger in Faramir's eyes, the desire to rise above baseness and cruelty.

Faramir was an unadulterated, sincere person. He was unafraid of her whimsies, and he seemed to greatly want to be in her company and protect her without being too stifling. A man deserving of Beregond's rash, noble sacrifice. He was so good however, that Eowyn felt too loud, too unexpected, too sinful around him, as Faramir was not removed or exempt from the way men often viewed her independent personality; that she was still a woman in need of keeping and boundries. This made her bridle, silent or not, and it made her analize their dynamic.

He was perhaps growing attached... and she was so incredibly thirsty that she drank deeply from the sparkling drought he offered. Eowyn knew he found her attractive as most men did; and while he was never rude or ogling as some men could be, she felt how vulnerable she still was and was scared. Reeling from loss, her heatbreak over Aragorn, and the unwanted attentions and lethal criticism of Grima Wormtounge would give her memories that made her mouth dry, her pulse race and her limbs shaky.

He had such an engaging aura that drew her in with such softness and sunshine, that she would often go back to her chambers in the Houses, resting her forehead to the cold stone wall as she was lost to everything dark she had ever known in the past. Eowyn braced herself for the letdown that would have her plummeting thousands of feet down to the consuming ground. She saw in her minds-eye the vision of her mother shrunken and sickened, in overbearing grief after her father Eomund's death, following soon after; Grima's slimy hands on her arms as she wrenched away; and her collapse after Aragorn's departure to the Paths of the Dead, her frozen stillness at his fading form then roughly given over to a torrent of heavy tears unlike any she had ever known. The very touch of Aragorn's hand had been a burning brand upon her skin... No love, lust, were very perilous indeed, better avoided, no matter how appealing, she would tell herself with mixed results; she simply could not control all she felt. Faramir offered her a new gold-tinged protection, but hadn't Eowyn just told her brother she had no use for safe-keeping or pity?

Faramir followed her one time through the garden, her heavy skirt flaring out and drifting as a spirit's mantle. He could feel the diverse contents of Eowyn's grief in her wake, a vortex of its own nature. But he was intrigued by it's scope, it's nobility shown in her character. The garden contained her, and he sought refuge there without quailing; he could handle it, he thought, he could understand it and accept it, could give her meaning where he had so often been bereft himself.

Eowyn was unlike any woman he had ever known; so pure and so mysteriously complex all at once. A secretive, snowy calla- lily, he thought of her with a rueful smile, with a special place ferreted away in his mind for the graceful image.

On the fourth day since their first meeting, Eowyn expressed her desire to see her uncle where he was laid out in the Citadel. Faramir told her he would come with her. Briefly, he pondered if either one of them was strong enough for such a sad, emotional experience. His heart thudded sharply in his chest when he thought of returning to the Citadel.

"You do not have to come with me..." Eowyn told him quietly.

"I owe my repects and honor to the your renowned uncle, the valiant Théoden-king." Faramir answered, earning him one of those rare smiles from the White Lady.

They walked up the winding street, passing the gate and the white withered tree, hearts and feet dragging heavily over both bones and stone. The elegant citadel rose above them, the mountain beyond it higher still, a shadow in the sun.

Faramir held the doors for Eowyn, who drifted in- grey eyes wide, the rest of her face kept immobile. Guards of the Citadel and a few Rohirrim warriors who had been left behind stood on guard over the raised green and white drapped bier where Théoden lay wrapped in gold. His sword and shield lay on his breast and at his feet; the metal catching the light reflected throughout the ivory and ebony Hall of the Tower. Such a grim, ostentatious place... thought Eowyn gazing towards the empty throne. She was pleased however to see that her uncle was being treated with so much honor.

The ancient statues in line with the carved marble pillars observed their echoing process over the floor. Faramir resisted the urge to offer Eowyn his arm, for despite her strained pallor, she shot him a stern glance that seemed to forbid such an action. His own limbs trembled and his ears rang as he remembered his dead father, but Faramir reminded himself to focus on the ins and outs of his breath; the life-giving air.

But there lay one of the dead... Eowyn's beloved uncle no less. Bowing to the guards who mutely saluted, Eowyn turned her tear-streaked smile of gratitude from the men of the city and her countrymen, to her kin. She looked him in the face, one that was still noble having been frozen from decay by the morticians. One empty, yet still close enough to the live man for Eowyn to grasp, murmer words in her own language as she stood close beside the bier. Her lips trembling, Faramir knew she was saying her farewells, and his heart seemed to break and weep at the sight. At least she could look still at his body, his father was just... gone. In fire, ash... destruction.

"He was so good to me ... when he could be." Said Eowyn, looking up to Faramir's eyes. "My uncle did not mean to abandon us for his own inner existence, lost as he was to the sickness of his mind before Gandalf came to Edoras and cured him. For a little while at least he was renewed to the fullness of his youth."

"Loved ones try to be there for you as long as they can... in mind or body's individual capacity. We have our memories, as our means of holding on to those who we have cared for, those who have cared for us."

"Ah memories." Replied Eowyn, gazing down again. "We human beings are so transient... merely visitors and seekers in this earth."

"Visitors and seekers indeed.. maybe little else." Faramir said, looking softly at her bent head, her black lace veil obscuring her face from him. It was the first time she had worn something so traditional. It brought out her femininity in a way he had never seen before.

After spending a little more time in silence, Eowyn and Faramir left the Citadel. Neither one of them turned back once.

A few blocks from the Houses of Healing Eowyn stumbled over a loose stone in their path, falling and sliding against a wall. Reflexively Faramir grabbed her hand, helping her up. "Are you alright?" He asked, realizing it was the first time they had touched. Her hand was surprisingly warm and firm against his.

"Yes... I will be fine." She said, their hands releasing as they met gazes.

Eowyn grimaced, for their was a jabbing pain in her broken shield-arm from having jostled it so harshly. She willed herself not to feel it.

"Let's go on." She told Faramir.

Eowyn spent much of her time away from Faramir with his cousin Lothiriel, who was curious about their budding relationship, but refrained from asking too many personal questions. She knew they could handle themselves honorably.

Eowyn continued to ask for her armor, for she had made a job of polishing what she could. The armor had already been cleaned, but it had been damaged much to her dismay. She wondered if it would be allowed to be repaired.

One day she also asked Lothiriel for a knife, which disconcerted her new friend so much, that Eowyn had to allay her fears. "I am not going to harm myself. I want an extra one merely for protection if we are attacked. Somehow I doubt I will be given a sword... so keep it for me would you? Just bring me one of those healers knives so I may examine it..."

Lothiriel raised her dark brows, but brought her one very similar to the one she herself wore at her side.

A short, dark little thing hardly worthy of being called a dagger, but to Eowyn's relief it was very sharp steel. the edge biting her fingertip.

"Can you fight Lothiriel?" She asked the healer.

Lothiriel laughed. "No that is reserved to the men in my family, although I have been told my aim is good..."

"Come on! Everyone can fight! and you certainly need to know how..." Exclaimed Eowyn.

She proceeded to give Lothiriel verbal instructions on how to lunge, parry and duck in a steel to steel fight.

Lothiriel learned quickly and had pretty good form. Before long she was slashing invisible forms in a way that was so incongruent to her usual healer's demeanor that Eowyn gleefully wondered what the Warden would think.

Lothiriel also began to teach her about the intricacies of herb-lore and healing, something Eowyn would have balked at a few days ago but was now receptive to and intrigued by. It had been inspiring to see Lothiriel in action one time in particular when they had toured the Houses and Eowyn was given leave to visit her fellow recooperating Rohirrim warriors. To know they were in such good, considerate hands was one less burden she felt she had to bear.

One time Lothiriel told her about a falling star she had seen. She asked if Eowyn believed in signs. Eowyn did not know what she truly believed when it came to these esoteric, arcane matters. She thought about the deep mystery of her night hours for clear answers...

Her dreams were now less dark, the nightmares ceased, although sometimes the new faces of her aquaintances would swirl in a mystical, obscuring mist. She saw flashes of light to the east, one time a golden sunset, and hoped fervently with all her heart for it to be an omen of golden victory for the captains and people of the west.

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A/N: For those who are big movie lovers like me I will tell you that the French film "Delicacy" had this part at the end that was very inspiring for my vision of Eowyn and Faramir's time in the garden... I will continue to recommend or tell you guys artistic things of note. Things that were inspiring for my writing in this story...!


	8. Chapter 8

Hey, I have to clear something up...if you are not cool with Beregond as an important character in this Fanfiction, then stop reading. Further, it states in The Return of the King, chapter 10 "The Black Gate Opens" on the first page... that Beregond is leading a 'company' of Men of the City to the Black Gate. Let's get clear and get on with it!

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The day was cold. The north wind was rising and the lands below were dusted as grey as their mutual eyes. Eowyn and Faramir stood high upon the city walls, looking out at the weather. It was their 5th day together. Swollen clouds glided listlessly through the sky. Faramir shivered and glanced towards Eowyn, wrapped tightly in the starry blue mantle that had once belonged to his mother, whose own beauty had long passed far away to reaches of memory and twilight. It was alive however on this fair woman, who moved quivering and breathing in ways he felt only he noticed.

Eowyn pulled her eyes desperately away from the lands engulfed in terror and struggle; and she found it all the more difficult to quell her dread and curiousity. There was something so quiet and still in the air that she felt she was all alone with Faramir on some mountain, the last survivors of war or shipwreck or desolation. Carriers of a fragile light.

"Something is happening..." She whispered, shuddering.

She felt him turn upon her and she met his motion, her body tilting beneath these deep folds soft and warm, that she had first protested against and now accepted. They spoke, the words both music and discord to her ears; and he waited patiently as she called for the reverent silence the moment seemed to bring and ask for.

The silence was completely consuming, clouds of mist filtering through their vision. Eowyn gasped, feeling that time was limited and stifled and then... expanded to something as fierce as the eye of a whirling storm. Faramir and Eowyn drew closer beneath the weight of the crashing worlds and dimensions, their shoulders brushing, then their arms taut, their fingers upturned. They breathed, the only sound they heard that of the blood beating, thrumming, singing in their hearts.

"Do you feel the tremor deep in the earth?" He asked of her as the north-eastern mountains where the Black Gate lay seemed to shimmer and tremble.

She nodded, sensations flooding and casting out her numbness, for the sun above them had not yet died...

Their hands merged, but they did not know of the physical linking of their flesh, engrossed as they were with the inner waiting, the inner battle.

Darkness and Light erupted and flared, and the wind blew at them bringing something that released the bonds of the shadow. When Faramir spoke of his dreams of Numenor, Eowyn sighed and listened, thinking yes, I understand this that goes beyond us... He gave her hope with his words, words that seemed to shelter and support her faltering feet. They faced eachother now without the fear, and Faramir held her with a wonder he had never known.

When he spoke her name and kissed her brow, Eowyn felt something give way in her heart, a heart that was now smiling. When they parted, they saw how the light had changed and the earth was now a golden hue. As if some wave had passed and uncovered the stars.

In the sudden mighty wind, Eowyn's hair strayed back from her brows in a nimbus about her head, and as Faramir watched her she was aware of his own grand aurora, his eyes penetrating and holding her attention, revitalizing and tightening her nerves all at once. The curve of his cheekbones and beard, his torso and hands held straight and strong, this handsome, unlikely man who had been her dearest companion at the end of the world as they knew it.

Then the greatest vision beyond any charted hope they beheld; the Eagles were coming, flying from the east, streaming to the great western city of Gondor to bring news of victory long desired and answered.

In the early night-time hours when the moon was rising, Eowyn and Faramir returned to the Houses of Healing for the balm of rest now resting freely over the city of Minas Tirith. There was a luminous luster about them and in the Houses, and as their feet drew apart over the mosaic tile floor, they turned eagerly back to eachother as if their glance could melt the distance now between them. The breeze brushed their faces with cool radiance. They bowed and smiled, sharing a resonant look of sweetness and friendship and possibilities that Eowyn carried back to her chambers as a visceral song.

The next morning was a fair one and all the people were rejoicing. Lothiriel came and hugged Eowyn and her features shone. Eowyn dressed as quickly as she could and went out into the gardens. She waited a long time but they remained still and empty. Her heart racing, she hurried back to the Houses and sought out Lothiriel.

"Lord Faramir...Where is he?" Eowyn questioned.

"He has now taken up his pressing duties as Steward; he is occupied I am sure by matters of state and all the little important details of business that need him and have called for his presence." Explained Lothiriel. She searched Eowyn's pale face. "Is something wrong?"

"No." Eowyn choked out, turning on her heel and swiftly taking her leave. Oh yes he had matters of import to attend to and had left without word... why was she even surprised? Understanding and angst warred within her. She felt the return of some weakness as she sat on a bench beneath a drifting tree and suppressed her urge to cry. He was gone...

April came and wagons came bearing men and requesting supplies and the presence of Merry and Eowyn on the Field of Cormallen. Merry happily rode away to reunite with his friends, but Eowyn blatantly ignored her brother's commanding summons. She could not bear for any to see the truth written in her face and the growing pain she carried in her limbs. Her injuries were inflamed and her once joyous heart down-trodden. Pride kept her walled in the Houses in an illness of her spirit that she did not desire Aragorn to witness. Hope now laughed at her and she cursed its teasing, taunting ways. She felt her place was still here, now caged ironically by her own hand. Eowyn did not see any sign of Faramir for many days until one day someone both new and familiar was brought to the Houses of Healing.

As Merry prepared to leave, a man was brought from the wagons in need of the herbal preparations of the Houses in case of infection from wounds. It was Beregond, son of Baranor who had fought bravely by the side of the Halfling Peregrin Took in the last battle before the Black Gate and had been struck down by a troll-chief. His injuries were not said to be he life-threatening but he needed the care of the Houses.

Eowyn had hurried to the sick-room of Beregond after Bergil and Lothiriel told her of his presence there. Her heart thudded dully, and she hoped he would recover and not sicken. Skirts kicking out before her, she rounded a corner to face of all people.. Faramir.

They paused as animals poised in flight and stared at one another.

This was their first meeting since the day Sauron was destroyed.

"Eowyn!" He said, falling in step beside her. "I am sorry I have not seen or spoken to you in so long! I have been kept incredibly busy and I regret my time has been limited. I have been sending you my best. I trust you are well?" His words scraped over her seeming forced and false. He was trying too hard.

"Yes, I..I have been well enough My Lord." She said glancing at him tersely before looking ahead.

"You do not have to treat me with such stiff courtesy you know... I feel I know you and am as fond of you as any sister would be to me, or my cousin Lothiriel, now that we've spent time together."

Her grey eyes shot to his. " Do you know me now, My Lord?"

He faltered. "Yes.. I..I .. suppose. You are going to see Beregond? He is a dear friend of mine and I heard you met him ere he left to the East. I hope he is in good shape and on the mend."

Eowyn forced herself to keep walking steadily forward. "Yes I dearly hope so too."

Silently and with some strange distance, they reached Beregond's room.

Eowyn followed Faramir as he approached the bandaged figure on the bed. "Beregond!" He intoned warmly and with care, taking the man's hand in his. Beregond's usual exuberant tone of greeting was lower but still buoyed by hearing Faramir's voice. The men greeted eachother, and then Beregond's eyes turned to Eowyn, standing withdrawn and cloaked.

"And you bring an injured man The brave White Lady! What an example of fortitude and healing must I now live up too!?" Beregond smiled, streaching the bandage over his cheek. "I am grateful you remembered me, My Lady." He said in a softer tone which Eowyn heard pain inscribed in.

"Always will I remember noble men." She told him back, fighting the strain in her voice and in her clenched muscles. The two men were then curiously staring at her in a way that made her feel exposed.

"Forgive me.. " Eowyn hesitated. "I must leave you to catch up and visit.. it is not my place." She turned to flee.

'Wait!" Beregond's voice caught her where she was. "I would think it would ease my healing if you were to speak to me again, My Lady Eowyn; and I would tell you of my experiences in the east if you are interested in my company and I hope.. it would not burden you."

"Never a burden! I wanted to look in on you and see how you are faring. But I do not want to infringe..."

"You may call me Beregond. I am a simple, humble man."

"But a renowned one of integrity... as your Lord would say I am sure."

Faramir inclined his head, and Beregond seemed relieved. The energy in the healing room felt easier and not as oppressive. "For once my words work..." Thought Eowyn with a glimmer of something more then the abashment that she had been feeling.

When she had bid them farewell for the time, she shut the door behind her and leaned against its solid mass.

Perhaps Faramir did not want her assistance or company anymore, but maybe- just maybe, Beregond did...

Confusion roiled her next days, but her injuries and distress began to lessen in their acute pain as she set herself to helping those who deserved praise in the days following the victory and the end of the war.

Beregond became a focus. She tried not to think of her thwarted feeling towards Faramir, and found herself taking a peculiar comfort in his friend. Had Faramir ever truly loved or cared for her? In their short, yet meaningful time together... something had grown and taken root, but was it now dying in their fear of commitment and innate shyness?

Lothiriel guided her in her desire to attend to Beregond's injuries. While the healers hovered doing the most intimate and important physical work, Eowyn took up the simpler yet still industrious tasks of caring for Beregond's slash trailing from nose to chin, and then just talking to him. The scratch on his cheek was shallow, but most thought it would leave a scar. When she would change the bandage and apply the herbs and salve, he would tell her of the battle and the Halflings that had saved the world.

It gave a spiritual rise to her tormented heart to think of these small folks who had wrought such goodness and miracles.

Beregond's eyes had been bloodshot, his breathing shallow, and his face grey when she had visited with him one on one for the first time. But now color had returned, his breathing was deeper, and his gaze grounded with a newfound clarity. This was an accomplishment to Eowyn, as was seeing him with his son Bergil. "To hold my son again in my arms and know we are safe... what a gift." He had told her, earthy brown eyes shining.

They spoke of things both serious and light, and one time as Eowyn's hand grazed over the skin of his cheek she wondered at their ease with one another. He met her eyes then, and her fingers shivered with an electric jolt at the contact. The jolt overwhelmed her. Once I vowed never to touch men... and now I am healing them? She made an excuse of gathering supplies across the chamber to gather her wits. How did I come to this, desperate to hide, but also desperate to be close to people?

Eowyn shook her head, adjusted her sling and went back to Beregond. "Who looks forward to Bergond's recovery.. how much family do you have beside Bergil?" She asked him later that day.

"If I do not face penalty for my disobedience, my parents, siblings and cousins in the south will be pleased to see me again. Alas! But Bergil is my only son and child... and... " Beregond's voice caught in his throat, sticky and thick with some great emotion Eowyn couldn't fathom. Impulsively she wrapped her fingers in his, pressing his cold hand.

"Beregond..?" She whispered.

He closed his eyelids. " My lovely wife died sometime ago... in childbirth with our second child."

"I am so sorry..."

"Don't be. She gave me many days and nights of bliss and contentment. More then most men deserve. And then there was my firstborn son... My Bergil is an image of her spirit. Memories bittersweet, memories bittersweet..." He trailed off.

Eowyn flushed, removing her hand and curling it upwards, her nails digging into her palm. What would she know of such grief? Yet she understood it...

That night her dreams showed her a smiling woman who led her to a veiled chamber where Beregond rose whole and healed to greet her. They embraced, but then his intense warm eyes changed to cool grey ones... Aragorn's eyes, Faramir's eyes... she screamed and reeled back, feeling hands grasping hers. "Eowyn! Its just me! Come back!" Lothiriel's anguished voice broke though her reverie. Eowyn opened her eyes to Lothiriel's hazle ones. "You are crying out and fighting me, are you okay?"

"It was just a bad dream, so real..." Eowyn collapsed against Lothiriel's shoulder and began to weep.

The next day Lothiriel summoned her resolve, thinking of Eowyn's unhappiness, and she went to Faramir encouraging him to seek out Eowyn. "I know what you feel for her.."

He ducked his head at her words. "I know..."

"Just know that your time may be running out..."

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Eva Cassidy's music is great for reflection... and this kind of subject matter! :)


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